


Midsummer Day

by tothewillofthepeople



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials, Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothewillofthepeople/pseuds/tothewillofthepeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras spends one hour in the Botanical Gardens with his dæmon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midsummer Day

**Author's Note:**

> i had absolutely no plans to ever publish this but i found the script of the stage version of HDM at the library today. so. i decided to pay tribute to one of the best series i have ever read in my entire life.
> 
> this won't make much sense if you haven't read HDM.

“Sometimes,” Harlan says quietly, “I think I can feel that they are here.”

Enjolras nods. There are no words in his throat or underneath his clever tongue– he does not need them to speak to Harlan, and even if he did he wouldn’t be able to.

Silence has become natural, for him. It never used to be. He imagines that Grantaire would be surprised.

Harlan is sitting next to him on the bench with his tail folded neatly on his paws. Enjolras reaches out to run his fingers gently down the line of the wildcat’s spine. Harlan closes his eyes.

“You feel them too, I think.”

Enjolras nods again; the movement is stilted and jerky. Harlan unfolds himself from his careful pose and climbs into Enjolras’s lap, where Enjolras can grip his dæmon’s fur to keep himself from shaking to pieces.

It isn’t only that he can feel the presence of Grantaire by his side– he can see him, almost, in his mind. Grantaire would be smiling his softest smile, his morning smile, and he would reach out for Enjolras and chastise him for crying. ‘You’ll wash all of the color out of those pretty eyes,’ he would tease, and his hand would be warm against Enjolras’s cheekbone.

Enjolras bows his head.

He has changed so much. It frightens him. Grantaire knew him by his bare feet and the length of his hair; Grantaire knew the reckless abandon with which he would speak and his wild-eyed concentration when he had the alethiometer in his pale hands. Now Enjolras’s golden hair is cut short, and he wears sensible shoes, and a pair of trousers folded up just once. He is not so wild. He is not so impulsive. And he wonders if Grantaire would still love him, if he knew.

The sun is warm on the back of his neck, and Harlan is a comforting weight on his lap. And– though it is ridiculous to think that he can feel anything, through the barrier of an entire universe– he has Grantaire. He has Grantaire and his dæmon. There are right beside him. If he closes his eyes it is easy to pretend.

“You should try to talk to him,” Harlan says quietly. “You know he’s probably talking to you.”

Enjolras breathes unsteadily. “I will when I’m ready.” Grantaire is probably talking and making wide, sweeping gestures with his hands. His blue eyes will be bright and his hair will be a mess– unless he’s cut it short too. He’ll ramble, and he’ll argue, even with no tangible opponent. It is another thing that Enjolras can imagine clearly.

How many times had he attempted to cut Grantaire’s ceaseless tirades short, while they travelled together? He would take back every word on his part if he could, just to hear Grantaire needle him again about something inconsequential.

“Try,” Harlan murmurs.

Enjolras clears his throat. He still has his fingers buried uncomfortably tight in Harlan’s fur. His throat is aching and raw with grief, and it takes effort to force any noise past his teeth. He breathes. He clears his throat again. He says: “Grantaire.”

There are birds singing in the trees above Enjolras’s head. The wind is stirring his curls, which are barely long enough to be stirred. Enjolras takes another deep breath.

“It’s beautiful here today,” he says quietly. “I hope it’s beautiful in your Oxford, too.” He’s talking about the _weather._ He can almost imagine Grantaire laughing at him for it.

“I am better with the alethiometer, now,” he continues. “Not like– then. Still not that good. But it is easier. I think I am learning the sort of calm that it requires. You know what it was like,” and here he stops to smile wearily at himself. “You know how testy I was, when I tried to read. The Dust– your shadows– they don’t speak to me as easily. It takes concentration.”

“You yelled at him about it enough times,” Harlan grumbles.

“I did.” Enjolras hesitates. “I– I’m sorry. For that, and for any other harsh words of mine.” He runs his hands soothingly down Harlan’s spine again. “I say this every year, don’t I? My darling love. Grantaire.” He has to stop for a moment.

“He wouldn’t like you to keep apologizing,” Harlan says quietly. “He knew. He knows.”

Grantaire had known. Grantaire had known everything, even before Enjolras. When Enjolras realized how he felt, how he _loved,_ Grantaire had been there with his smile and his open hands and had loved Enjolras, too.

Enjolras tips his chin back. He’s very tired of crying. He doesn’t cry every year, but the ache of missing Grantaire has never abated. Enjolras knows the Masters at the college still expect it to. They do not fault him for keeping his singular appointment, once a year, but they still seem surprised.

“I miss you today more than any other day,” says out loud, with his eyes still tipped up to the trees. “I feel like you’re here, right next to me, even though the fact that you aren’t makes me ache.” He sighs. He is a proper adult now, with sensible shoes and neat clothes. He is wiser. These days on the bench are different than the vigils he kept at fourteen, fifteen. “’I brush ten million other worlds, and they know nothing of it.’ But you can tell I’m here, can’t you?”

Harlan makes a concerned noise.

“There’s no need for that,” Enjolras scolds him, and then addresses his absent Grantaire once more. “You told me not to waste my time thinking of only you. I hope that you are doing the same. I hope you have people who love you. I hope you love them too.” He smiles and holds Harlan more firmly to his chest. “Being loved suits you,” he adds quietly, and then he kisses Harlan on the top of the head.

They sit in silence in the warm sunshine for several more minutes. Enjolras can feel the wind on his face. To himself, he seems younger here than anywhere else– he knows this about himself. And Harlan is more tactile when they come to sit on their familiar bench with the ghosts of their past.

“It has been an hour,” Harlan says. That was their promise: one hour, every Midsummer’s day, in the Botanical gardens. Enjolras has never been late.

He looks around at the trees and flowers, and he thinks about Grantaire, and about Dust. “Let’s stay just a moment longer,” he suggests quietly. Harlan flicks his ears and agrees, and so they stay.

(One breath and one universe away, Grantaire is doing the same.)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr at [kvothes.](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/tagged/x) talk about lyra and will and i might cry.


End file.
